Stairway toHell!
by Angie Croft
Summary: King Arthur meets Dante's Inferno...bet you didn't see that one coming.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not, in all actuality, own either Lancelot (though I can dream) or any references to Dante's Inferno. **

**A/N This was originally a story for an English project to create your own Hell based on Dante's Inferno, but it became rather epic in length. The good news: it's finished, so it won't take me three thousand mellenia to update!!!!!**

Previously, the thought of an adventure held a certain appeal. I mean honestly, who wouldn't like to quest for Candy Mountain atop purple flying unicorns? But that was before, you know, it actually happened, my adventure that is. I can't say I didn't see it coming, if that giant sign on the door at school reading "Welcome to Hell" was any indication, but seriously, it looked you're your usual graffiti! Being the new girl and all, how was I expected to know which doors contained the loos and which were just pretending and were really portals to the nether world?! Well, just in case you were curious as to just who, exactly makes the mistake of wondering into hell on the first day of a new term, please allow me to enlighten you. My name is Amanda Lavoisier, and I am a sophomore or "tenth year" at The Plutonian Institution for the Proper Education of Students in Order to Achieve the Full Potential of their Currently Intellectually Lacking Brains. Yeah, I don't really like to talk about it. Anywho, for my presence here I have only dear old mum to blame, who decided to take a hold of my education personally. Naturally, there are no schools good enough for her precious sunshine on our side of the Atlantic, a.ka. the American one, so I got shipped off to The Plutonian Institution for the…yeah, not saying that again…which, to get to the point, is in jolly old England. Oh, and the jolly old England bit? It's all a lie, because people here are not jolly, not even in the vaguest sense of the word. I have yet to see one smile, never mind laugh, a skill which appears to have been bred out of them. Actually, that's not true. I have seen one girl smile, and that was when I trod on my own foot and fell spectacularly down two flights of stairs…but nows not the time. The real story here is about how I left Spanish class for the loos and ended up in hell.

So there I was, sitting in a room full of silent, unsmiling teenagers, three images that should never be present in the same sentence, and really needing to pee. I sat there a few moments more, pondering the dichotomy of good and evil, (actually I was just thinking about lunch) before I decided to be brave and ask to leave the room. It may seem humorous to the third party observer that I was afraid of my Spanish professor, but believe me when I tell you that my fears were not without reason. Yeah, when Millie Wentworth was missing from class for a week last term, the school claimed the presence of a pathetic medical complex like Yersinia pestise. Honestly, when was the last time a kid contracted a septicemic plague in school? Like 1497? The students knew the truth, and it had naught to do with corporeal disfiguring and presently non-existent diseases. So you'll understand my condition when I tentatively raised my hand to ask the query that could so easily spell my doom….

"Yes Miss Lavoisier? Do you have something intelligent to contribute to the conversation?" Stifled sniggering could be heard throughout the classroom. I was hoping they had missed the delicate stress Mr Helesonopolis had laid on the word intelligent, but due to the laughter that his remark had produced, that wasn't the case. At least I had learned that my classmates did have the physical capability of laughter, I thought they were missing some anatomical parts or whatever.

"Er…No. Actually I was just wondering if I could run to the bathroom." I held my breath as I waited for his response. The events that followed and their effect on his swarthy pink face; framed with bushy blonde beard and complete with monocle as they were, would have been hilarious to watch had the situation not been so serious. The pink on his face was replaced first by a kind of purple, creeping slowly up his neck and then solidifying into a freakish skin tone. At this point he rather resembled some sort of mutated radish subspecies. He sputtered incoherently, his moustache wobbling slightly giving it the appearance of a woolly caterpillar about to be thrown of its perch.

"You wish to do…_what_?!" He forced out after what seemed an eternity.

"Go. To. The. Bathroom." I repeated slowly, deciding that honestly was the best policy. At this point his tiny eyes were beginning to pop, they had widened to the point where I could see the little red lines left by his monocle. "Please?" I added as a rather tentative afterthought. I let him sputter a bit more before bringing out the big guns. "I'm experiencing feminine issues." That did it. His eyes bulged, if possible, even further, and the radish hue his skin had adopted was replaced by a mildly amusing combination of green, white and blue. I tore my eyes away from his rapidly perspiring skin to take in the whole of his flabby face. His mouth had puckered up in a manner that could be said to resemble someone who has just swallowed a frog. Not that I know what someone looks like just after swallowing small green amphibians, but I can hazard a guess. He appeared beyond words, so I interpreted his unbelieving silence as a confirmative one, and sprinted from the room. So much for a dignified exit. On a brighter note I was now free to choose my own destiny, or rather which bathroom to use. I trotted down the hall in search of the farthest loo possible from the Spanish room. I doubt I will ever regret a decision more than the one to pass the first floor lavatory by. Humming happily to myself, I skipped on by, shooting the closed door with its little blue and white plastic woman a look of contempt; I proceeded to the bathroom I thought I knew was upstairs. Reaching the top of the lengthy stairs puffing slightly, I cast about for the bathroom. I quickly spotted the men's room, and next to it was an identical door, save of course the fact that the words "Welcome to Hell" were scrawled messily upon it's grubby surface. That made me chuckle, ever since I had arrived at the school, I had indeed felt like I was in my own personalized hell. How wrong I was. The writing on the door caused me to pause and survey it's canvas. You could see the mire left over from hundreds of dirty children's hands smearing the hideous old wood, and even see the patchy glue silhouette where the plastic girl had once been stuck. Stupid vandals, who would want one of those? Shaking my head and cringing inwardly at the amount of microbial organisms I was toughing as I did so, I grasped the handle and swung open the door. I was not, as I suspected, in a tiny and rather grungy bathroom on the second floor of school. Instead, I was standing on a landing at the top of a seemingly endless spiral staircase that plunged into the abyss below. I probably should have mentioned previously that it was the middle of September, and in England, that means warm. Not so much here. The air had become cool and thin, and my hair was being ruffled by the wind. I'll admit I was a little slow with this one. It took me a full minute to think it was even the teensiest bit odd that there was wind_ inside a staircase_. That was rather strange, I had to admit, but I was prevented from further scrutinizing the situation by the unmistakable and endlessly annoying sound of a throat being cleared. I about faced, military style, to find the source of my irritation. You see, I had fancied myself alone in this rather brave new world. It turned out not to be so. Standing by the wall opposite was an extremely attractive guy. About six feet tall, he looked about six or seventeen. His face was angelic, which as I would soon find out was rather ironic. Matters weren't helped by the fact that thick obsidian locks offset his mismatched eyes, one blue and one green. Needless to say, I'm a sucker for dark haired blokes. He was made all the more attractive by the cocky smirk playing at his lips, revealing a set of sparkling white, perfect teeth.

"Took you long enough." He said, his voice low and smooth, arrogance radiating through every syllable. This caught me rather off guard. I mean seriously, I was the one who was supposed to be asking questions, like why are you in a girls lav, to start. Not to mention afore stated hot guy seemed to have been waiting for me. This must be my day.

"Um…What?" I asked. How clever. I was just little miss brilliant this morning. To my surprise, the fit bloke didn't seem at all put off by my lack of witty response. Instead, that god-forsaken smirk became more pronounced, and those gorgeous eyes began to sparkle.

"You heard me." He stated, the smile growing wider.


	2. Chapter 2

"Obviously." I stated, my lip curling with annoyance. This didn't escape the guy, who was smiling broadly now.

"Well hello to you to." He said, looking affronted but not sounding it at all.

"Whatever." I snapped. "Who the bloody hell are you?!" I asked my tone sharp, both seriously annoyed and confused. Who was this guy? I had never seen him around school, believe me when I say that had I, I would have remembered; such a fantastic specimen of the human form is not easily forgotten. He chuckled, grinning that dazzling grin again.

"I am Sir Lancelot, who, due to previous acts of valiance and chivalry, has been selected for the most honourable task of guiding you through Hell." He began the sentence with a theatrical air, but by the time he finished, his voice was layered with sarcasm. I stared. Even though it sounded ridiculous, I knew him to be telling the truth. It made no sense, but something told me to believe him.

"Lancelot, as in _the_ Lancelot, like King Arthur Lancelot?" I asked, although I was fairly certain I already knew the answer.

"The one and only." He replied, looking smug, but also faintly amused. "I tell you that I am your guide through Hell, and all you care to question is the veracity of my identity. How human of you." He shook his gorgeous head in disbelief.

"Shut up. What exactly do mean by official Guide through Hell?" I asked, rather slowly, not entirely sure if I really wanted to know the answer.

"Do you believe in God?" he asked me, his cool demeanor failing to hide genuine curiosity.

"Uh…no." I responded, not really sure where he was going with this.

"Well you should," He replied. "As that's the role you are about to play." He smirked slightly as he finished his sentence, his eyes sparkling. I didn't really know how to respond to that, which is a once in a lifetime occurrence, so it was lucky I was saved from having to as Lancelot proceeded with his oration. "We are about to entre a Hell of your own creation. The levels have been plucked from the deepest facets of your conscience, based on the ten levels, which you use subconsciously to gauge your dislike of certain individuals. These levels are so submerged within your psyche that you are more than likely unaware of their existence. They have been removed from their abstract positions in your mind, and become tangible." I stared. How could I not? I mean seriously, how many people in this world have god complexes? And how many of those seriously messed up people actually get to have their judgments carried out?! The answer: one, and that individual happens to share my social security number. So according to my guide, I now had my own personal Hell. Granted, it was located in a second story lavatory, but hey, you win some you lose some. I looked up, and Lancelot was watching me expectantly.

"When does my tour begin?" I asked him, a wide grin spreading across my features. Lancelot smiled in return, his crooked smile matching my own.

"Now."

The wind in the staircase suddenly picked up, clogging the air with so much dust and debris that I could have sworn I was standing in the middle of Dorothy's cyclone. Before a minuet was up I was forced to assume the highly undignified fetal position to protect my eyes and breathing organs. I used to think extreme weather was cool, but I'm no longer a fan of giant raging semi-cylindrical funnels of moving air.

The tempest stopped as suddenly as it began. I looked up, fully convinced that the staircase and everything associated with it had been demolished by the storm. What met my eyes was so…._pink_.

Judging by the look of supreme disdain I was beginning to associate with him the colour scheme of Hell didn't surprise him one bit. Everything about the place was _pink_. Pink! As in the colour of My Little Ponies and Barbie's favourite dress, EW! It was then, when I was looking all about the gruesome place, that I noticed that we were still on the same landing that I had stumbled across in search of the loos, only now, instead of being all nice and dark, it was hideous and the dreaded pink. The walls were a light sort of rose colour that would have been pleasant had it not been off set by violent floral patterns, which threatened to smother the on-looker with their cuteness. To further heighten the atmosphere, plates with pictures of purring kittens had been forced upon the wall. It was truly sickening.Unable to stand the gruesome spectacle any further, I looked away. Taking a few deep breaths, I forced myself to re-evaluate the scene. When I unveiled my downcast eyes, I almost screamed. Covering the floor was the most repulsive floral shag carpet I had ever beheld. Surely this was some cruel joke, a horrific nightmare… there was only one way to know for sure…

"Ouch!" I cried. Lancelot looked at me, confusion and worry in his eyes,the latter no doubt regarding my sanity. "Sorry. I thought I was dreaming, so I pinched myself. It hurt." I explained. He shook his head, looking amused and laughing silently.

"Are you laughing at me?" I inquired indignantly.

"I wouldn't dream of it." He replied, and then cleared his throat and began, "Welcome to the vestibule of Hell. Here resides the Falsely Stupid, those who disguise their intellect with unintelligence because it attracts attention." His lips twitched as he continued. He straightened up, dropping his casual British accent for a posh Oxford one. He proceeded to dictate those personages in Hell with the air of one commenting on the weather. "And if you'll look to your right, you'll see some of your school mates, you should recognize the third one in on the right from your math s class, her name is-"

"What's their punishment?" I asked, cutting him off. I had been so distracted by the vulgarity of the interior decorating that I had neglected to notice that there were people here. The vast majority of the sinners sat at desks, concentrating so hard it looked painful. Standing at the front of the room was a terribly frightening woman, dressed in a fucia crocodile print dress suit; the collar of which was lined with orange fur. The sheer monstrosity was shocking to behold. Her hair was done up in fascinating ringlets of putrid blonde, the kind that's so blatantly unnatural you can't help but question the existence of God. She stalked catlike across what I assumed to be the front of the row of desks, peering over horn rimmed, rhinestone incrusted glasses at her 'students' as if wondering which next to eat.

"Yes, the Falsely Idiotic. The sinners in the vaguest sense of the word are forced to solve complicated mathematical equations whilst being strangled with a fluffy pink-feathered boa, which represents their own false intellectual inferiority. Said boa is impeding them in death the same way that their actions stifled their intelligence and that of those around them in life." Lancelot told me.

"Serves them right." I muttered darkly. People who pretend to be stupid are so annoying it's not even funny. I mean seriously, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out Alaska and Hawaii aren't in the Gulf of Mexico. Lancelot looked at me, amused.

"Yes…their mistress, as I suppose you could call her, is Britney Spears. Her mission in death is to make sure none of the other sinners escape their punishments, all the while memorizing excerpts from The Dummy's Guide to Child Rearing. Over here-" he indicated a spot to the left of the main group of sinners "are the special sinners, ones whose crimes against intelligence sparks the need for more effectual punishments." To the left of the sinners were little closet sized alcoves where two figures were discernable, both sitting on benches pouring over unseen documents with expressions of intense concentration and frustration upon their faces. The closest sinner to us I recognized immediately as none other that pop sensation Jessica Simpson, possibly the dumbest female in the history of the world.

"And here we have Jessica Simpson. In her self wrought prison she sits, pondering all possible meanings of the phrase 'chicken of the sea'." I snorted with laughter. Oh good old Jessica. It was impossible to forget the whole tuna incident, it's not every day people get confused as to whether or not large marine fish are actually birds due to a metaphorical label.

"Who's the other guy?" I asked Lancelot.

"That would be a certain Republican vice-president Dan Quayle, possibly the least intelligent politician ever to see the light of day. He has many things to reminisce about in his little cove, including the exact location of Phoenix on a map, how exactly televisions run if not on electricity, how many words are in the phrase 'to be prepared', what NASA's priorities are if not space, which planets are contained in the Solar System, and how America can possibly be a part of Europe." I laughed at that, turning my attention to Quayle's booth. Every surface was covered with definitions, maps, and conceptual drawings; including a map of Arizona with a neon orange star highlighting the city Pheonix, a simplified diagram of the electrical hook-ups of a television, a numbers chart, and a definition of NASA's mission. Hanging from the ceiling was a little model of the solar system witch spun about lazily.

"We've seen all there is to see here. On to Circle One!" cried Lancelot, interrupting my study of the contents of Dan Quayle's cell. I nodded, and we proceeded to the spiral staircase.


	3. Chapter 3

At the end of the second landing stood a single door, a little silver 1 its only adornment. The surface colour had once been black, but time (or vicious random mini-tornados) had left it peeling, the missing strips betraying the presence of mahogany wood beneath. The hallway; and staircase for that matter; all shared the same pigmentation, leaving the passer-by with a distinct impression of dinginess and neglect. Lancelot turned the handle, causing a snowstorm of dust to speckle the grubby black carpet. He held the door open for me, bowing slightly and indicating ladies first.

"How chivalrous." I mocked. He just smiled, and urged me through, stepping in and closing the door after me. I mean I know I should have seen it coming with the pink room and all, but come on, _lilac_? In Hell? That was interesting. The walls of this room were plain, save the unexpected coloration that put jovial flowers in mind. White moulding trimmed the ceilings and floors, and the floors were paneled in cherry coloured wood. Every once and a while, a little scream could be heard above the harrowing torrent of hip-hop music polluting the atmosphere.

"Welcome to Circle One, Those Who Put Make Up on in Class." Spoke Lancelot above the din. Aha. So this was where those shallow minded self-worshipers resided. It was incomprehensible to someone with my self-esteem to be so worried about whether or not my lips matched my skin tone that I was driven to break out the compact and brush in the middle of a classroom. That strikes me as a bit odd, not to mention annoying as all sin for those unfortunate enough to bear witness to the task. The sinners all sat against the walls at beauty counters akin to those one sees in a salon lining the perimeter. Each had their own vanity mirror posed upon the table, makeup covering all available surfaces. It was now that I realised that these people were omitting those obnoxious little yelps. I studied them closer, wanting to know why they were adding to the already overwhelming noise level in this level. One girl in particular caught my eye. She was sat in the corner, and much to my amusement appeared to be wrestling with some sort of unseen daemon. After a few moments unmitigated struggle, she seized up and gave a terribly awkward choking shriek noise. I moved around so I could see her from the side as opposed to the back, curious as to why she struggled so, not to mention the origin of that incredibly strange sound. The girl's foe was mascara. Granted, it was Maybelene XXL, but mascara all the same. She struggled valiantly against the offending little black stick, but to no avail. The malicious mascara leapt up and jabbed her in the eye, resulting in the obnoxious noise I had heard earlier. It was quite comical to witness, this epic battle between girl and makeup. I looked around, and noticed others waging similar wars, some against lipstick, concealer, nail polish, and the occasional rogue eyeliner, one girl was even being mutilated by a nasty looking eyelash curler. Lancelot spoke up, and from his tone also found amusement in the previously mentioned situation.

"The sinners in this circle are, like all others, punished with symbolic retribution, their ongoing war with cosmetics represents their daily war with themselves and the mirror." He broke off there, clearly not trusting himself to speak without losing his carefully maintained air of decorum. He closed his eyes and looked at the floor, swallowed, and then took a series of deep breaths before rounding on me again, and proceeding; "We have seen all there is to see here, it is time for Circle 2." I nodded in agreement, and we left.

When we stepped back out to the landing I was caught off guard by the sudden darkness. Blinking stupidly, I hurried after Lancelot who was already back on the staircase. When I reached him he stood beside another unremarkable door, tuting softly at me and my incapability of negotiating staircases in apocalyptic darkness.

"We don't have all day love." Was all Lancelot had to say when I scrambled up to him. Deciding it wasn't worth the effort, I gave a non-comitial grunt, attempting to convey all of my dislike and annoyance in that one-syllable and very unattractive noise. He laughed and opened the third door, this time with a lopsided little number two in the top centre. Before I could step through the threshold, he held out his hand indicating for me to stop.

"Before we go in, there are some things you need to know. Here dwell the senders of chain mail, be it by text message, e-mail or otherwise. They are allowed to speak only in the form of chain messages, to prove to them just how annoying their habits are to others. They can only be relieved by spreading their word, but they cannot, and thus are eternally tormented. Be warned, they will pop up everywhere, whishing for you to bring their message to the living and relieve them of their pain. Have a care against pity in this place! Thankfully they are so annoying that the whole pity thing really shan't present much of a problem I should think. Still, mark my words."

"Consider them marked." I said, mentally barricading myself for my meeting with the sinners of the Second Circle. Lancelot then threw open the doors, and we entered. I immediately began looking around for a window, preferable several stories up, so I could throw myself out of it. The entire room was grass green. Not pleasant sunny summer day grass green, but Kermit the frog has just puked up anchovies, clovers, bread mould onto the grass and it's all starting to mingle kind of grass green. That was just the walls. The carpet had been maimed into resembling actual grass, but something had gone awry leaving the beholder with the impression of standing on a semi-retarded golf green. The place was obviously supposed to give its occupants the illusion that they were standing in the midst of some sort of meadow off a Gateway box, but they had fallen dismally short. Had anyone asked me at that moment if anyone could have made that room worse I would have answered with conviction that no force on heaven or Earth could have created a room more visually appalling. That, of course, was before I saw the daises. Drawn all about the tops of the walls were these sickening little white and yellow flowers all attached forming a pun intended daisy chain. How clever. They were drawn in the most lucid manner, all loopy and with sickening smiles meant to portray clueless elation, but getting it all wrong and instead looking like they were about to commit murder. _I_ was about to commit murder looking at them. The decorative scheme was like a car crash, you couldn't look away. Those god-forsaken daisies were inside my head, leering at me….I found myself wishing for something, anything with which I could destroy those flowers. Paint, markers, or preferable a flame thrower. I narrowed my eyes, smiling cynically at the thought of those daisies going up in smoke and the pleasure I would take from my revenge….

"Today is WISH MAKING DAY.. if u r reading ths msg may God bless u, may all ur wishes come true & may u have gud times in all stages of ur lyf.. jst wish for

anythng & forwrd ths msg." I jumped, shocked. I had been so entranced by the flora of the place I had once again failed to notice the fauna. Surrounding me were no less than twenty sinners, all smiling maniacally at me, looking awfully like those bloody daisies I had just been wishing to incinerate. The sinner in question, the one who had just been attempting to chain message me, was soon shoved out of the way by its companions, all of whom began shouting their messages at me simultaneously.

"I am giving you 100 angels to take care of you. Give them to 9 friends including me & you will get good news in 10mins. Trust me!" Angles eh? You're in Hell sweetheart.

"Send this to five friends or you won't find your true love!" Shut up.

"Ur my best friend, so send this to 10 of you friends and you will get good news 10 times today!" This bombardment of people made me feel rather like I was in a bazaar, or rather at the mall going down an isle of those workers at booths in the centre asking me to try their hand lotion and perfume. I tried to escape, but they were reaching out and grabbing my shirt. This was not good, not good, oh my God it won't let go… NOT GOOD!

"Lancelot! I could use a little help about now!" I called, trying by best not to panic. I now knew how the other Cassius felt at the end of _Julius Caesar_ when the Roman rabblement was after his blood, and it wasn't pretty.

"Yeah, I'm working on it!" I saw him attempt to control the shades, but there were too many. He vaulted over their heads to me with surprising agility, making me suspect a past life as a Russian gymnast. He grabbed me to him and held me tight, shielding me from their flailing limbs and obnoxious words. He spoke softly then, his lips somewhere near my ear.

"I've called for aid, they should be here soon." He whispered for my ears only. Sure enough, footsteps could be heard on the stairs, followed by the unmistakable bang of a door being thrown open. Immediately the pressure of the shades began to lessen, and their formless mass began to regain its individuality. I looked up over Lancelot's shoulder, curious as to whom our savior was. Standing there in the centre of the room was no other that Simon Schama, art historian extrodinare, and my personal hero. I've always maintained that if there is ever a biographical film made about my life, Schama would sure as Hell be narrating it. Lancelot released me, and turned to Simon Schama, looking respectful, or at least respectful-er. It was amazing just how arrogant that boy was.

"I apologize for any trouble they may have given you. You are lucky you know, getting to experience your own Hell like this. It's a once in a lifetime opportunity. People, like historians are left forever chasing shadows, painfully aware of their inability ever to reconstruct a dead world in its completeness however thorough or revealing their documentation. We are doomed to be forever hailing someone who has just gone around the corner and out of earshot." Schama's voice was so hypnotic, he could read me _War and Peace_ in Binary and I still would have been captivated. However, there was still one teensy question…

"But what about the shade? Is it really gone?" I asked tentatively, not really sure if I was safe as of yet.

"Oh yes, he's gone. He was a frustrated theatrical impresario, basically" Huh. I wasn't really sure what that meant, but it sounded good.

"Thank you very much, illustrious teacher." Filled in Lancelot, incapable of omitting sarcasm from his tone, and bowing deeply. Schama looked down appraisingly, but only nodded. He then turned away, and strode towards the door. I caught him muttering as he went "Walking on camera is damn hard. It's a Jewish problem. The rangy stride across the blasted moor is not really a Jewish thing." I frowned confused, but then Lancelot took my hand and gave it a tug, indicating that it was time to leave the third circle and those insipid daisies behind. We walked out of the room, and together took the stairs to the fourth landing where the Third Circle lay. We were greeted by another boring door with a number three, no surprises there. Lancelot pulled me closer to him as he opened the door, still holding my hand. It seemed the whole chain messaging shades thing had an effect on Lancelot, as he now seemed unwilling to let me out of his sight, or off his arm for that matter. We stepped into the latest level simultaneously, and were both temporarily blinded by the obnoxion of the yellow that greeted us. This was not ordinary soft and kind yellow that you'd find on a child's blanket or in a cheery room, oh good god no. This was slap you in the face, gran's favourite colour, sunshine annihilating yellow. The colour's voracity was shocking, the onlooker was instantly transported into a state of jollity that it could be described as painful. The sinners seemed to have suffered the same, as they boasted a collection of the largest smiles in the world. I'm talking mouths agape, tongues lolling and eyes shining beams. This was all fine and dandy, until further scrutiny of the sinners forced me to conclude that I was very wrong on that count. It would appear that septicemic plagues did exist in the twenty first century after all, in Hell at least, for each sinner boasted a full set of grotesquely engorged black lumps of flesh about their lymphoid. The contrast this inspired was quite a spectacle, it's really not to often you people looking absolutely ecstatic about being incubi of viral plague. Yet there they were, grinning maniacally and oozing puss from giant gaping black sores. Lovely.

"Here are those who speak the abbreviated language so commonly found in text messages and in online conversations. Many of them you will recognize from your home, and you will realise that they are not in fact dead, yet. You are seeing them as their soul appears; corrupted and wasting away from the disease that is the language of abbreviations. All of these sinners bring this foul language into verbalized conversations as well, thus transmitting it to thousands." Lancelot spoke softly. I had forgotten Lancelot was there, which is surprising, as he had retained a vice like grip on my hand, not to mention he is just so damn _pretty_. If they were infected with the plague, then why were they so happy? I personally wouldn't be to pleased if my soul was infected with a disease prone to creating malignant lymphatic tumors, but that's just me. I figured it must be that god-forsaken yellow. Paint it on the walls of a funeral home and you'd be smiling and laughing whilst burying your mother. I was still fuming about the yellow when pressure on my captive hand made me look up. Lancelot nodded his head towards the door, and together we moved off in the direction of Circle Four.


	4. Chapter 4

When we entered Circle Four, I was fully convinced I would be traveling into another atrocity of interior decorating, but I was gladly mistaken. Instead it appeared I had wandered into a very large and very dirty public toilet. It was your classic public restroom, with textured grey walls perspiring from the heavy and cloying air that was clogged in turn by a mixture of excrement and cleaning products, hardly an attractive _eau de toilette_. Lifeless speckled grey tiles covered the floor, forming the base for the stainless steel cubicles that were obviously filled with meaningless graffiti like 'Jennifer was here' and 'I heart Thomas', doubtless with the Thomas crossed out and replaced by the name of some other faceless idiot. Lining the walls were those crappy sinks always found in such locations, the ones on which you can practically read the words 'I have every disease definable by mankind' and just picture that heinous little germ ridden child putting its diseased hands all over just prior to your visit. It's at such times that one is thankful for the invention of miniature bottles of disinfectant spray.

"Who has to spend their death _here_?" I asked Lancelot, looking about in disgust.

" Those who complain all the time. They are divided into three categories, those who complain about themselves, those who complain about others, lastly most annoyingly those who complain about things they cannot change. The first group of sinners you see standing over there at the sinks are those who complain about themselves. They are stood there, before the mirrors, forced to come face to face with all of their so-called faults. You see them all washing their hands so vigorously because they are attempting to wash away all of the things they don't like about themselves." Vigorously seemed a bit of an understatement to me. Each person was bent over the sink, concentrating every fiber in his or her being on the task at hand. (Pun intended) One particular character had his eyes screwed up in concentration, biting on his tounge which was stuck out the corner of his mouth. Every few seconds one of his hands would fly franticly to the soap dispenser, furiously pumping droplets of foamy white soap out onto his fingers. The gel was then vigorously applied to his remaining hand, which then met with its mate and resumed its dance, weaving in and out of the hot water in supine position.

"Over there in the cubicles are those who complain about others. Their issues with those around them are being expelled from their body in the only way they can." I reall don't think it's necessary to go into detail regarding this punishment, seriously, if you don't know what goes on in a loo by now I really don't think I'm qualified to help you. I nodded in revolted understanding at Lancelot, and smiling knowingly he proceded on to the next group. "On that far wall by the automatic hand dryers stand those who complain about things they cannot change. They are doomed to constantly be drying their hands, the water representing things they are unable to alter because those dryers are so ineffectual that if you come back tomorrow their hands will be just as wet as before." He defiantly had a point. Those bloody air hand dryers were terrible; I could be standing there for years and still have sopping wet hands. A sudden wave of realization came over me, as that's what these sinners would be doing for eternity. I probably should have felt pity, but whatever spark of humanity there was in me was quelled by how annoying I found complainers. They were a rather pathetic lot, stood about those fetid dryers as they were, staring so intently at them it appeared they were attempting to dry their hands using either telepathy or the force. Smiling to myself at the mental picture conjured up of the nearest sinner to me dressed as a Jedi and holding a light saber, I turned to Lancelot, indicating that I was ready to leave. He understood the unspoken command and led me back through the sprawling bathroom to the landing.

My first reaction to the realm of Circle Four was disorientation. I could not figure out for the life of me any reason why both Lancelot and my doppelgangers should be in Hell, standing exactly where we were, only on the side opposite. It was only when my identical twins jaw droppage mirrored mine that I developed a hunch. _Mirrored_. To test my theory I performed an awkward kind of pirouette, much to Lancelot's amusement. It didn't surprise me that the other me did the same, while an equally attractive Lancelot looked on with a smile. There was a mirror there; a colossal mirror that took up every inch of the wall. I looked around the rest of the room I noticed that every surface in the place was covered with mirrors, even the ceiling and floor. It was confusing; on occasion when I looked into a crowd of what I thought was total strangers, I would randomly pop up out of the crowd. Not to mention that whenever I looked up I also happened to be looking down. It was bizarre. Shaking my head in attempt to clear it, I started looking around at the sinners. At first they seemed normal, a bit pushy maybe, but normal enough. It soon became clear however, that they all wanted to have an uninterrupted view of themselves in the mirror. Now, this really shouldn't have posed a problem, as there was more than enough mirror to go around. However, they were never content in one spot, instead needing to shove others out of the way in quest for the best lighting or whatever. From the urgency with which they were ramming each other you would think the mirrors were advertising the cure for cancer. One of the sinners caught my eye, as she was standing at one end of the room bracing herself like a bull ready to charge, complete with head down, eyes narrowed and foot pawing the ground. You could almost see the steam coming from her nostrils as she prepared to spring. Without warning she leapt forward, hurdling through the crowd at breathtaking velocity most easily compared to that of a recently launched rocket. The momentum she was picking up as fascinating, her target visible in the distance and still completely oblivious was really in for it. They collided with a boom that probably broke the sound barrier, the girl's target flying through the air at unnatural speed, her body contorting into a shapes that really couldn't be called human before landing in a pile of tangled limbs. God someone needs anger management. What, you ask, was the reaction of little miss pushy to the condition of her victim? She whipped out a camera, made a 'cute face' and took a picture of herself in the mirror.

" As you seem to have discovered for yourself, this is the realm of the Chronic Picture Takers. They spend all of their time photographing themselves for their myspaces and facebooks, ignoring the important non-material things in life. These you see before you are r the first set of these sinners, those who photograph themselves in mirrors." When he said that I realised that everyone here kept randomly breaking out their cameras and snapping a shot or two of themselves in all their self promotional cuteness that most consider the very opposite. "If you'll follow me, we'll go to the next round, those who photograph themselves scantily clad." I gave a small 'harumpf' of stifled laughter, my fertile mind imagining the state of those most grievous sinners. He led me over to one of the far corners where a door was concealed in the vast mirror, so well hidden it was that I wouldn't have noticed it at all had he not made it obvious. Opening the door, he led me into the room beyond. The room was circular, and would have been pretty cool, had the walls not been covered by childish wallpaper. Now reader you must understand that I do not use the term 'childish' lightly; when I say it I mean it and everything it implies. For starters, there were the dinosaurs. Lining the walls were happy looking Jurassic Park characters drawn in a cartoony manner to make them more appeasing to the public. The public would have been a lot less friendly to accept T-Rex as a the decorative highlight for their child's walls was he drawn to scale with six inch teeth and jaws that would be more than willing to consume dear little Johnny. I mean seriously, when was the last time you happened across a twenty-ton carnivore waving its miniscule blue arms in greeting while grinning stupidly? Despite the obnoxiously bright and falsely cheery walls, the rest of the room was very dimly lit., but the small amount of light was randomly permeated by the camera flashes coming from every direction, it was enough to make anyone have a seizure. The lack of light in the room was really nothing compared to the lack of clothing worn by those who were here. Lancelot hadn't been kidding when he told me that these were the people who took pictures of themselves in less than nothing. I had seen various infringements like this in popular online communities in which I prided myself in not partaking. However, it was impossible when going to a gossip hungry school like mine to be ignorant when Mary posed in naught but her knickers. There were about a hundred such Mary's scampering about the floor, which was covered with a thin layer of ash, the presence of which seemed inexplicable. What famous last words. Just as I had been thinking of all the possible solutions for ash being on the floor, one of the sinners happened to spontaneously combust right at my feet. Which was lovely, having the remains of a recently incinerated homo sapiens all over my Chuck Taylors. Gross. A second later the sinner reappeared, looking just as conceited as ever, and once more whole.

"Here the sinners have their pictures taken from all sides, and unable to decide where to look they implode in flame. The wall paper is to make them feel awkward and foolish, as it is supposed to remind them of their childhood; what their mothers would say could they see them now." He kept his eyes averted from the scene before us, and I could understand why; those people who needed to resort to wearing just about nothing before a camera did so because they couldn't get attention by more socially acceptable means, a.ka. their wit. Finished with this bleak bunch, I felt it was time to leave. Going off mutual understanding, the pair of us headed for the door.

Set back slightly from the other doors, that to Circle Six appeared in much better condition than all the others, the black wash unmarred with the little number six burnished and glinting in the dim torchlight.

"Why is this door so much nicer than all the others?" I voiced my question out loud, hoping Lancelot could shed some light on the matter.

"This door is in much more use than all the others. More sinners come down here every day, as the crime of Putting People Down on Purpose is steadily becoming more common." Aha. So those were the people who resided here, the ones who harmed others with there words. I was not__a fan. In fact, you could say the very opposite. I, unlike some, don't take pleasure in making kids who already feel inferior even more so by adding the snarky remark "good story" to the end of their tale, no matter how much it made me wish to meet my maker. I was now curious as to how exactly they were being punished for this trespass against their fellow man, so I urged Lancelot inside. The stench that greeted me was overwhelming. It was as if the contents of every Port-a-Potty in the world had been throne in a blender with the foul combination of week old laundry and eau de boys locker room. I gagged, my eyes becoming faucets before I had time to bring my sleeve up to protect my facial orifices. When my sense of smell was dimmed enough to permit vision, I found out that the place looked exactly like it smelled. Down in a pit in the centre of the room lay every offensive thing imaginable piled into what appeared a thick sludge. Little bits and pieces of revolting objects could be differentiated from the main body; here and there you could see broccoli stems, disregarded socks, pieces of sweaty sports equipment, manky looking food items and a rotting fish that smelled as if it harkened back to the Stone Age. Trudging through this mess were the sinners, all of whom were covered head to toe in the horrid muck. All of them were clawing at each other in a desperate attempt to escape, but the walls wouldn't permit it, so all they accomplished was blooding themselves, though that didn't stop them. Clever, they were. I could feel myself getting light headed, so I turned and moved towards the door. It wasn't fast enough. The smell had worked its way through the selectively permeable membrane of my sleeve and inflamed my brain. My eyes rolled back and I fainted.

The first thing I saw when I awoke was Lancelot's angelic features that were creased slightly into a look of worry. Naturally I fancied myself in heaven. Groaning I sat up, while Lancelot flew to my side, steadying my ascent to my feet.

"Are you feeling alright? You were there one second and the next…." He trailed off, looking away and slightly embarrassed about something. "Anyway, I caught you before you fell into that pit, so no harm done. We're in the Seventh Circle now, by the way." Did he say that he caught me? And carried me somewhere? Why oh why did I have to be unconscious for that?! I tried to refocus myself, somewhat unsuccessfully. So this was Circle Seven. The only thing noticeable about it was how unnoticeable it was. Each of the four walls was painted a smoggy grey. By smoggy I imply that there were tones of brown mixed in with the overwhelming grey. The room was so…_bleak_. A thin coverlet of water was strewn across the floors, making the room look like a city on a dismal day. To keep the illusion of a city alive, all of the sinners here were walking about with there heads down, immersed in their own affairs; I jumped slightly when Lancelot's hand finding mine reminded me that I wasn't standing on my own in the middle of any one of countless urban areas. I looked back at the sinners and found that there was absolutely nothing exceptional about any of them. Each and every one looked exactly the same. The conformity of it all was terrifying to me.

"Who are they?" I whispered to Lancelot.

"They are the conformists, or as you would label them the Abercrombieites and Hollestarians. Since they couldn't think for themselves in life, here in death they have lost all of their identities." A loss of who I was as an individual was possibly the most terrifying punishment imaginable to me. It would be awful to wake up each day knowing that I was just like everybody else. I shuddered from the thought, pulling Lancelot back towards the door.


End file.
